


Alohomora

by test_kard_girl



Series: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Eight [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Boys Kissing, Drarry, Enemies to Lovers, Gay Disaster Draco Malfoy, Gay Draco Malfoy, Harry isn't doing much better, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, No-one knows how to deal with feelings, Post-War, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Very slight suggestions of PTSD, awkward boys, everyone's so angry all the time, what not to do when you're on probation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29618184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/test_kard_girl/pseuds/test_kard_girl
Summary: He has dreamt, waking and sleeping, of having Potter's mouth on his, his hands in his hair, for such a long time now that it felt like the last thing to resolve between them, the absolute last thing Draco had to lose.So...Maybe it's impossible to write a one-off for these two? And maybe it's really fun to write Draco Malfoy And His Anger Issues? I dunno, here's a wee sequel/caveat toAparecium. There may be more because--gah--but I do not promise plot. Maybe just mild smut and occasional feelings.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Eight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176149
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	Alohomora

Whenever he's unfortunate enough to be timetabled into one of the seventh year classes—and not just left to endless, pointless studying and frosty one-on-ones—Draco takes his time packing up, waiting until everyone else has left, minimising the time he's in the corridors along with the rest of the student body and bitterly taking advantage of whatever meagre protection a teacher's presence might offer him. But on Wednesday at the end of afternoon Potions, his stomach gives a sickening, panicky clench when he finally heads to the door and finds Potter dallying around the store cupboard, shunting jars and boxes around like he's never made a patently-transparent excuse to lag behind before.

It's the first class they've had together since The Thing Whatever The Fuck That Was In The Changing Rooms; since Draco was an idiot and scrawled off a dare in response to Potter's chivalry because he's never been able to _not_ do that, and now—like ever—he finds his bravado has deserted him and he wants to scamper away and not deal with any of it.

 _Fuck_.

He dithers for a moment. Then, he steels himself and shoves his hands in his pockets and goes to push past Potter and out.

'Malfoy—' He hears as he exits, but he keeps going. A midget little Hufflepuff second year squeaks and flattens herself against the wall opposite to avoid his satchel smacking her in the mouth.

 _'Malfoy_.'

He can hear Potter striding after him, his trainers slapping against the flagstones. _Potter_ coming after _him_. Merlin, fuck, he should probably be honoured.

And then Potter says, 'Draco.'

And it's _horrifying_ , the lauded saviour of the entire world being familiar with _him_ , like they're _anything_ ; it feels like pins being pressed into his skin. It makes Draco stop dead and swing around and Potter just about manages to stop short of ploughing into him.

He has a smudge of something on his cheek. Snakeweed powder. His hair's _ridiculous_.

The last time they were this close Draco had made him come in his hand.

For a second they just look at each other. Then, somehow, Draco manages to drag up a sneer.

'Right here?' He says quietly. 'Really?'

'...What?' Potter sighs. He sounds knackered.

'With all these people about?'

Maybe Potter's gaze slips a bit: to Draco's mouth, to the sliver of neck visible above the collar of his robes. 

'No, I-' Potter replies. The line of his lips tightens. 'Look. I brought your gloves back.' He says and fishes in his robes' pocket. 

Draco stares at him. He's vaguely aware the other students _are_ starting to notice them now, expectant eyes glancing up, nudging each other. Behind Potter's shoulder, Draco can see Slughorn's shadow lumbering around the corner.

The other boy holds Draco's gloves out to him, and Draco works very hard not to smack his hand away.

'Oh have yourself a souvenir Potter. Go on.' He snaps. The spite comes easier than it ever has, which is saying something, and Potter rolls his eyes and drops his arm and Draco turns on his heel and storms away. He'll have missed the rotation on the second floor staircase and he'll definitely be late for Arithmancy now, but of course it doesn't matter. None of it _matters_. This is all dragon shit anyway.

His stomach feels heavy, like something black and stagnant is expanding inside him. His face feels hot.

When he gets to the entrance hall he flicks his wand at his side and the tiles, damp with muddy footprints, are suddenly coated in a sheet of ice, sending half a dozen panicked fourth years slithering on their arses straight into a line of suits of armour that don't quite manage to leap out of the way in time.

'Mr Malfoy.' Slughorn's voice rumbles behind him, and he doesn't even sound angry. Just bored. But he gives Draco a detention anyway, sorting out the potions supplies for the second year's swelling solution.

Mostly, Draco's relieved. 

He'd expected Potter to hex the shit out of him, if he's honest, that day in the changing rooms. He has dreamt, waking and sleeping, of having Potter's mouth on his, his hands in his hair, his cock a hard solid promise against his thigh, for such a long time now that it felt like the last thing to resolve between them, the absolute last thing Draco had to lose. And Potter's eyes had been on him since they first stepped back into the Great Hall on the first of September, Draco wasn't wrong about that, and finally being alone with him and having that inscrutable gaze on him was too much. Potter had never been inscrutable to him before, never. He wanted to break him. Wanted Potter to return the favour.

Which has worked, in a way. 

He shows up for Slughorn's detention on time and spends three hours sorting pufferfish eyes and bottling off Salamander spittle into neat sets for each of the twenty desks. It's...embarrassingly soothing. Menial and untaxing and it helps switch his brain off a bit, although the slime under his fingernails is disgusting. Slughorn occasionally murmurs or chuckles to himself, alternating marking a pile of essays with greedily devouring the latest _Spellbound_. But every now and again Draco glances up and catches the old bastard looking at him, something tight pulled across his fleshy forehead. Draco wishes he had the nerve to stare back at him when he does this, but he doesn't. Not anymore. He never thought he'd be sick of attention.

When he's finished it's near enough ten and Slughorn squints at the clock and huffs a 'Yes, very good, thankyou Mr Malfoy' and gives Draco leave to scrub his hands and be on his way. He doesn't try and tell him off anymore, which is a relief, or give him sage advice about making amends and keeping his head down. The Slytherin cowardice runs deep. 

Draco resists the temptation to wander the darkened, silent hallways. It isn't worth the trouble, he knows that: but the urge to be alone in the quiet is a strong one. Pretend the whole school is nothing to him. Stride three times past the Room up on seventh and see if it still knows what Draco needs better than he does. And he's never exactly been above _sneaking_. But: no. Instead, he sets off obediently towards the next staircase. He makes it down the spiral and along another corridor and is only two corners away from the entrance to the common room when he slows abruptly at the sudden, impossible touch of fingers at his arm.

He forces his feet to stop. Takes three steps backwards and when he turns around Potter's behind him.

Distantly, he realises he's not even surprised.

They blink at each other for a moment. Then Draco says in a low, blank voice:

'How long have you been waiting there?'

Potter shrugs.

'Not long, don't flatter yourself.' He returns. It stings a bit: feels good. 'Slughorn never keeps people after ten.'

Draco catches the inside of his lip in his teeth. They keep looking at each other, two feet apart, and it's like after Draco kissed him, the first time, when everything started moving very slowly and Draco was very, very prepared to get punched in the face.

Then Potter shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and jerks his head, tinily, back the way Draco came. 'Come on.' He says, in a brittle voice Draco's never heard from him before. Immediately, he feels his shoulders tighten: _Potter_ , ordering him about, pious little Gryffindor prick... But. But. Here he is now, the Wednesday after Draco let him kiss him through an orgasm, waiting in the dark.

His skin looks so warm in the flick-snapping glow of the torch-light. 

Draco follows him, half a step behind. When they get back to the Potions corridor, Potter leans against the first door they come to and silently _Alohomoras_ the lock.

They slip inside. Draco drops his bag on the floor more dramatically than he needs to and tries not to react when Potter gestures vaguely around the room and a handful of candles in the creaking chandelier above them twist and shimmer into life. Just enough light to make out the plane of Potter's jaw in the dark; his glasses. The soft-looking jumper he's zipped over his t-shirt. 

'If you're going to hex me you don't need to go to such trouble.' Draco says, trying to press some nonchalance into his words around his heart in his throat. 

'I'm not going to hex you Draco—'

'— _Stop_ calling me that.' Draco snaps, and his voice snaps too, like rotted elastic. So much for nonchalance. Potter raises his eyebrows. Waves his fingers one more time to give them a little more light then drops his arm to his side.

''S your name isn't it?'

'Not to you.' Draco glowers.

'...Right.' Potter says, again in that unfamiliar voice. Then, Draco watches as he comes back over to him. Careful, even steps across the stained and blackened flagstones.

He stops about six inches away. His arms are folded over his body, the fingers of his left hand worrying at his right elbow, like some little boy nervous about getting into trouble. But his eyes are very frank.

He presses his lips together then says, quietly: 'Do you want to talk about this?'

Draco stares back at him. He feels like he stares for good solid minutes before he shakes his head and hears his own voice say: 'No.'

Potter doesn't begin with kissing him this time. He closes the last inches between them and reaches across and puts his fingertips to Draco's stomach. Draco can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his school shirt. He stares at Potter's face, but Potter's watching his own hands like he isn't quite in control of them, drawing them down to push behind the waistband of Draco's trousers and curl around his belt. He tightens his grip and pulls him closer and Draco closes his eyes without meaning to: at the scent of the other boy in his nostrils again; the smell of him that is now always poisoned with smoke and scorched flesh and blood that tastes like gold under his tongue. He exhales and feels how close Potter's mouth is. His knuckles lodged against Draco's hipbones. He drops his head and maybe their noses brush.

'Kiss me again.' Potter mutters and Draco opens his eyes to see the other boy gazing back at him, pupils huge in the darkness. He still has his glasses on and Draco can't find the words to tell him to take them off, this time. Instead: he does as he's told. He twists his hand as tight as he can in the back of Potter's stupid hair and kisses him; licks his mouth open and feels the rough noise Potter makes go right through him, cold and hot and gorgeous.

Fuck, he is so fucked. Fuck. _Fuck_.

He kisses him again, and Potter kisses him back; pushes at him until Draco's spine thumps against the edge of the sideboard that runs along the length of the far wall, crammed with years' worth of scrolls and textbooks. Awkwardly, slipping on the rolls of parchment that spill out onto the floor, Draco shoves Potter away for a second and jams one heel into the lip of the bottom shelf and half-levers himself up, making space for the other boy to cram right up against him, press between his knees, yank Draco's shirt tails out of his trousers and get his palms against his skin and his mouth against his neck.

The school is so quiet around them. All Draco can hear is their hot breathing, the sounds Potter is making in his throat, and the embarrassing, needy little noises his own mouth is gasping at the hard grind of their hips and the sharp edge of Potter's teeth in his skin. He'd object to the fact that golden boy really seems to like shoving him up against things except Draco really fucking likes it too; lets Potter rub up against him until he makes him come—doesn't even need his hand on him this time he's wound so tight—and feels his brain emptying out of all its cloying black misery just like the Slytherin hourglass keeps emptying out of emeralds. But well, it's not like he had any dignity left anyway and he's always been a fucking idiot where Potter is concerned, and... And. Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

His probation officer isn't going to approve of any of this.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I ruining it by writing more? Do you want more? These two are so awful, honestly, it might just be 10000 words of angsty smut before someone cracks and starts crying in Charms.
> 
> Always <3 to read your comments.


End file.
